


proceed with what you're leading me to

by skatingsplits



Series: we couldn't bring the columns down [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: But only a little, Cunnilingus, Desk Sex, F/M, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon, Teacher-Student Relationship, a little softer than what i usually deliver for them, aka the Zelda playing Eve fic nobody asked for, okay quite a few people asked for it but, two manipulative idiots who both think they're in control of the situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 17:30:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: It's not that Zelda is spoiled. It's merely that it's usually ridiculously easy to find a way to get exactly what she wants. At the tender age of five, she'd learnt from watching her mother that a few aesthetically pleasing tears spilling from wide, earnest eyes would work wonders on her father and she's been learning ever since. There's certainly no shortage of weapons in her metaphorical armoury and should the need arise, she could probably find some literal weapons too. At twenty-one, self-assured and confident, Zelda is nicely accustomed to getting her own way. But there's one thing she really wants that's stubbornly remaining just out of her reach.





	proceed with what you're leading me to

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This works as a companion piece to [for all intents and purposes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17376731), rather than a prequel or sequel so it isn't necessary to read both but if you enjoy one, you'll hopefully enjoy the other.  
> 2\. Big thanks to [hacklesacademy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/hacklesacademy) and [cassi0pei4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassi0pei4/pseuds/cassi0pei4) for their encouragement with this. I started it three months ago and it's been an absolute bitch to get finished so hopefully it was worth the wait!

It's not that Zelda is spoiled. It's merely that it's usually ridiculously easy to find a way to get exactly what she wants. At the tender age of five, she'd learnt from watching her mother that a few aesthetically pleasing tears spilling from wide, earnest eyes would work wonders on her father and she's been learning ever since.

With Edward, persistence is key; haranguing him with expertly fleshed-out arguments until he concedes is a strategy that never fails. Granted, Zelda knows that he tends to give in out of a very patronising boredom, rather than being convinced by her rhetoric, but the result is the same. To get Hilda to bend to her whim, Zelda fluctuates between domineering cruelty and persuasive wheedling. For her peers at the Academy, either a suggestive smirk or an icy glare usually does the trick. There's certainly no shortage of weapons in her metaphorical armoury and should the need arise, she could probably find some literal weapons too. At twenty-one, self-assured and confident, Zelda is nicely accustomed to getting her own way. But there's one thing she really wants that's stubbornly remaining just out of her reach.

That particular thing happens to be her brother's mentor, her Advanced Hexes professor and the biggest flirt this side of the Atlantic Ocean. It usually takes a distinct lack of effort on her part to get someone into bed, little more than a bat of her eyelashes, but Faustus Blackwood remains immovable. In class, he praises her with a sonorous voice that usually leaves her breathless and soaking through her knickers by the time she leaves the room (and a smirk that tells her he knows it) but even her tightest skirt hasn't spurred him on to touch her. When Edward invites him over for dinner, he calls her Zelda and fills up her wine glass and looks at her like she's a piece of prime steak but running his hand up her thigh and fingering her under the table remains firmly in her imagination.

One of the reasons that Zelda has such a high rate of wish fulfilment is that she's too proud to go after things that she suspects are actually beyond her reach and from an outsider's perspective, it might appear that Faustus is exactly that. But, whatever her faults might be, Zelda isn't stupid. The trailing hands down her back, the kisses to her hand that last a moment too long to be decent, the way he says her name like it's the most intimate endearment; she might not rank too highly in the subtlety stakes but he certainly isn't much better. Whether he's demurring because of his combative relationship with her brother or because he just gets a kick out of seeing her squirm, Zelda is reaching the end of her tether.

She's done her best to dismiss him as a thoughtless tease, an idiot who doesn't know what he's missing out on. It's not as though she's wanting for sexual partners; the rest of the staff and students at the Academy are at her beck and call, seemingly all with better taste than the resistant Professor Blackwood. At this point, however, it's a matter of principle. Zelda gets what she wants and what she wants is Faustus Blackwood.

So it seems divinely fortuitous that he's given her an opportunity to get him. The Academy's annual production of The Passion of Lucifer Morningstar is usually beneath Zelda's notice; her time at school is divided between frenetic bacchanals after hours and devoted studying during the day, neither of which leave much room for over-earnest amateur dramatics. But when Edward had casually mentioned that his favoured colleague was directing this year's production, Zelda had suddenly found herself with a newfound yearning to tread the boards. And it had been so easy to lean over Faustus's desk after class and breathlessly beg him for a little private tuition.

“I was so flattered, Professor Blackwood, that you chose me to play Eve.” Zelda looks up at him through lowered eyelashes, twirling a strand of golden hair round her fingertip. This strategy usually works depressingly easily on the other professors; useful as it is, it's not exactly reassuring that the ostensible best minds in the coven can be so thoroughly swayed by a little display of simpering demureness.

“I had no choice in the matter, Miss Spellman. You were... sublime.” Faustus gives her a look, the same hungry look he'd given her when she'd read Eve's lines for him. Zelda preens, but Faustus's face settles into a frown as he leans back in his chair. “Which is why I was perplexed when you requested this meeting. I can't imagine what I can possibly do for you.”

“Well, if you must know,” She leans forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice as though she's scandalized by what she has to say. “There was a little gossip floating around that I had acquired the part... improperly, shall we say?” If there is any such chatter circulating the Academy halls, it's only because Zelda herself had heavily implied it, declaring to the girls' dormitory at large that Professor Blackwood was such a _generous_ , hands-on director. Perhaps if she said it often enough, fantasy would become reality. Faustus merely arches an inquisitive eyebrow but Zelda doesn't think she's imagining the tiny smirk threatening to tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Of course, you and I both know it's nonsense but I'm determined to prove that I really am right for the role.” She smiles at him, pushing a stray curl back behind her ear. “And besides, I feel such a strong connection to the material. Eve, breaking out of the shackles placed upon her by the False God, finally being able to exercise the free will that the Dark Lord bestowed upon us. It's one of my favourite tales of His generosity.”

As she speaks, Faustus rises from his chair and moves around until he's resting against his desk in front of her. She'd done her best to sound like the eager, excited schoolgirl but with every inch closer he moves, it's becoming less of an act.

“And mine. I believe we should venerate Eve, should we not? Exalting in the pleasures of the flesh, tasting forbidden fruit...” He takes her hand, toying with it idly. His index finger draws a swirling pattern over her palm and Zelda has to swallow before she can speak again

“Is that something you enjoy? Forbidden fruit?” The schoolgirl breathlessness is still colouring her voice but it's becoming less deliberate by the second. It's not exactly uncommon for him to do this, flirt with the blurred boundary of their not-so professional relationship, but every single time it makes her heart stop beating in her chest.

“Don't we all? Doesn't everything taste sweeter when we know we shouldn't have it, shouldn't even want it?” Without a shadow of a doubt, he's doing this on purpose and Zelda doesn't want to fool herself into thinking that it means that he's going to do anything other than wind her up to breaking point and let her snap but Satan below, the way he's looking at her...

“Have you any idea how dull it is to have to sit here week after week and listen to streams of idiotic witches barely past their Baptism days come and practically beg me to fuck them, for better marks or a cheap, childish thrill? There's no grace, no subtlety, no art to it. Don't you find that there's so much more pleasure in drawing things out, denying yourself the things that you really want so they taste so much sweeter?” He's gazing at her like she's a delicious banquet on Feast day and more than anything, even more than arousal, Zelda feels vindication. She'd known he wanted her, she'd been absolutely convinced, but there had always been a tiny voice in the back of her head (that sounded rather a lot like Edward) telling her that he was just toying with her, stringing her along for his own amusement and doing nothing more than laughing at her. He certainly isn't laughing now.

“And what is it you want?” She genuinely doesn’t recognise her own voice. It's raspy and raw, and she hates that she can't even begin to disguise how much she wants him.

“Darling, if you don’t already know, you’re not the woman I thought you were.” She just looks at him, silently pleading. The feeling of his nails sliding against her scalp makes her physically shudder and her eyes flutter shut when his mouth presses against her jaw. It seems to take an eternity for the slow line of kisses Faustus bestows upon her face to reach her lips but when it does, Zelda moans, loud and abandoned. The kiss is nothing like she'd imagined, all those nights with her fingers in her cunt; she'd thought it would be frantic, animalistic, tearing each other to pieces. Instead, his hands run languorously through her hair as he slowly consumes her mouth, and it's more sensual than Zelda even knew was possible.

She restrains herself for as long as she can but sooner rather than later, her hands run up his chest to undo his tie, only for Faustus's own hands to pull them away. Flushed and glassy-eyed, Zelda pulls back to protest but his index finger comes to press against her lips and she can't even breathe, let alone speak.

“As tempting as you are, my darling girl- and believe me, you are- there's a whole queue of students waiting out there for me and I don't really feel like sharing. At least, not until I've had a real taste of you myself.”

Zelda swallows, her chest still heaving. He shouldn't be allowed to say things like that; homicide amongst witches is frowned upon and he has her dangerously close to expiring on the spot.

“And when exactly might that be?” She asks, attempting to sound as though every sinew in her body isn't desperate for the answer. The self-satisfied look on Faustus's face tells her that she wasn't entirely successful.

“Well, I suppose that depends on how much private tutoring you feel you need, Miss Spellman” he lowers his voice and gives her that look and it's devastatingly attractive but Zelda isn't seduced enough to ignore that it isn't a proper answer. She gives him a look of her own, all arched eyebrows and ice, and rises from her chair as gracefully as she can muster with her legs still slightly wobbly.

“We'll see. I think you'll find that, when properly motivated, I'm a very quick learner.” Faustus comes to his feet too, unnecessarily walking her to the office door. The pressure of his hand on her lower back is enough to send her slightly dizzy but noticing that he still has a smear of lipstick on the corner of his mouth has a rather stabilising effect.

His apparent temptation aside, Faustus doesn't seem in much of a hurry to make good on his words. He still rests his hand too low on her back while he's showing her where to stand in rehearsals, still makes her knees go weak when he smirks at her across the pews at Black Mass. On one particularly stand-out occasion, he even leans across the Spellman dining table to feed her a strawberry and the darkness of his eyes as he watches her lick tart red juice from her lips makes her come particularly hard in the bath that night, fingers pressing desperately into her cunt as she pictures his face. Once again though, there's no indication that he intends to do anything other than tease. Initially, she's too stubborn to arrange another little meeting; why should she create an opportunity if he isn't going to make the slightest bit of effort? But sulking and pouting and waiting seems far too close to giving up for Zelda's liking. And perhaps it would be helpful to have just a little elocution coaching...

His office is chilly; there's no fire in the grate and the cold January air nips sharply at her skin but Zelda knows in her bones that it's going to be more than worth it. She's perched precariously on top of his desk, the wood smooth against her bare skin as she maintains an elaborate pose that shows off her naked body to its best advantage. With her golden hair released from its proper, pinned-up coiffure to tumble down her shoulders, her smooth pale skin practically luminous in the purple-pink dusklight trickling in through the window and waxy crimson lipstick freshly painted over the curves of her mouth, Zelda knows fine well what a picture she makes. It would take someone with cast-iron self control to resist the little honey trap she's laid, and she's fairly sure that Faustus Blackwood’s self restraint is more akin to pliable silk than solid steel.

Keeping her chest pushed out to the high heavens is making her shoulders ache and reading the same page of her script over and over again is as dull as ditchwater but there's too much adrenaline coursing through her body for her to really care. It seems like an absolute eternity before she finally hears the doorhandle turn and although Zelda forces herself to pretend to peruse the pages in front of her instead of drinking in the look on Faustus's face, his sharp intake of breath is satisfying enough to make her cunt clench. She studiously ignores him, her brow furrowed in feigned thought, until he very pointedly clears his throat and she raises her head with a bright, demure smile.

“Professor Blackwood! I was beginning to think you weren't coming.” Zelda keeps her tone light, nothing more than friendly, as though she isn't completely nude astride his desk. The expression on Faustus's face, however, suggests that friendship may not be exactly what's on his mind. “I hope you don't mind that I let myself in; it's so much more comfortable in here than outside.”

“No, Zelda, I don't mind...” The way her skin prickles as his eyes sweep over her body is almost as good as a physical touch. Almost. “Although I am wondering exactly when I missed a memorandum detailing the Academy's new dress code.” He steps closer and although he doesn't avert his gaze for even a moment, Zelda hears the lock click behind him and has to restrain a shudder. Half of the reason she's here, posing like a latter day Lady Godiva for him, is that he has magic flowing from the tips of his fingers that would take a lesser witch half a lifetime to master, and even that tiny reminder of his prowess has her wanting.

“Oh,” Finally, she puts her script down and sits up straighter, putting her arms out as though she's modelling a piece of exquisite couture for him instead of just her own lust-flushed skin. “I thought that perhaps I needed the director to approve my costume choice.”

There's another sharp hitch in his breathing but Faustus has managed to temper the blatant greed on his face. The back of his hand brushes against her bare arm almost tenderly but his voice is sharp, only just on the right side of severity.

“Your costume? Forgive me, Miss Spellman, but I believe that in previous productions, our Lady Eve has donned something a touch more modest than this.” His hand is trailing along the outside of her thigh now and Zelda leans into it shamelessly, more willing to let her mask drop and expose the raw need bubbling away inside her with every second his hands are on her.

“You see, I was so inspired by what you said about Eve, that we should celebrate her, do you remember?” Faustus merely hums in agreement, the muscle in his jaw twitching as one sharp-tipped finger scrapes over her hip, his glittering eyes firmly fixed between the apex of her thighs even as he's obviously endeavouring to keep his face straight. “And I thought, what better way to do so than to display her in all the glory that the Dark Lord gave her?”

“Glory indeed...” he mutters, and this time he doesn't seem to be able to stop the hunger from trickling into his voice. The pads of three fingers dance a delicate pattern over the curve of her stomach, he's close enough for her to scent the cigar smoke clinging to his jacket and Zelda lets her eyes flutter shut in delicious anticipation of his kiss.

It doesn't come. Instead, when she opens her eyes again, he’s eyeing her with an appraising look that’s almost as arousing as the lust that had been clouding his gaze moments earlier.

“And yet, I was under the impression that we were meeting for a rehearsal, not a... costume fitting.” Zelda is familiar enough with the cadences of his voice to know that Faustus is trying to sound disinterested, scornful even. She's also familiar enough to know that he isn't quite managing it. There's a rough edge there that scrapes over her like nails over flesh and if it was difficult to keep the serene smile on her face before, now it's a physical ache to not let her heavy eyes shut again or her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

“But don't you think it would be remiss of us not to have a dress rehearsal?” She shifts forward just a little, looking across at him with as much faux-naïveté as she can muster. “Or... perhaps you don't like my costume?” Zelda bites her lip, letting worry flood her face. “You haven't said... if you don't like it, I'm sure I can-"

As she spoke, she'd moved to cover her breasts but, as she'd known he would, Faustus barely lets her move an inch before he grabs her hands, pinning them to the top of the desk with the forcefulness she'd been desperate to coax him into. He's pressed closer to her, his right leg pushing up against her left and it would only take one tiny little movement for her lips to meet his.

“You're a teasing little minx,” Faustus bites out, his grip on her hands squeezing tighter. “If I wasn't so sure that you'd love it, I'd put you over my knee and show you how I deal with naughty, presumptuous coquettes who think they can have whatever they want with a flutter of their eyelashes.”

If anyone else on earth had said that to her, Zelda would have slapped them hard enough to send them screaming to the Pits of Hell. As it is, there's a knife-sharp twist of desire in her stomach and she presses her thighs together so tightly it's beginning to hurt.

“Are you telling me that I can't have what I want?” She asks softly, tilting her chin to one side inquisitively. He isn't, she knows that he isn't, but that little Edward-esque voice in the back of her mind hasn't disappeared completely and it's that little voice that stops her from just reaching up and kissing him into acquiescence.

“There's a first time for everything, is there not?” Faustus smiles, wide and hungry and malicious, and Zelda's stomach drops again. “But no, Miss Spellman, what kind of teacher would I be if I didn't give you what you came for?”

He leans closer, his hands releasing her own so that he can palm the soft flesh of her hips, and for the second time in as many minutes, Zelda finds herself trembling as she waits for him to take the first step down the path to what will hopefully be complete and utter ruination.

“Well, read me your lines then, Zelda.” Devious bastard. The wretched man draws back again, folding his arms with the ridiculously smug smirk she knows so well now on full display. “I don’t have all day, you know.”

His condescension shouldn’t be arousing but Zelda has to fight the urge to squirm as le leans back against his chair, close enough for her to stretch her arms out and touch but too far away for her to not look entirely desperate if she did so. It’s obvious that he thinks he’s winning this little game but Zelda would swear fealty to the False God himself before she’d let Faustus see that she’s suffering.

“But Professor, I need someone to read the other part...” She holds her script out to him demurely, her most winning smile fixed upon her face. The shake of his head is almost imperceptible, as is the twitch of the corners of his mouth; someone who'd spent less time than her studying his every facial expression for signs of approval would have probably missed it. Ignoring the offered papers, Faustus takes one deep breath, synchronised with one long look sweeping over her body before he begins to speak.

“What are you doing here, my child, all alone in this false paradise?” It’s thoroughly unsurprising that he knows his own script by heart and Zelda would be tempted to roll her eyes if she weren’t so distracted by the deep timbre of his voice.

“I am free to wander wherever I wish under the light of the Lord.” Her own voice comes out far breathier than she intended because, the instant she begins to speak, Faustus starts to stroke idly along her bare leg.

“You think of this as freedom? When you are so restricted by his command, cut off so cruelly from the desires that are your birthright?” He shifts forward again, his movement devastatingly predatory and when two strong hands grasp at her hips to pull her into a standing position, Zelda is too aroused to do anything other than obey. She hadn’t considered what an effect Faustus taking on the mantle of the Dark Lord might have on her but she’s aching so much between the thighs that it’s actually starting to hurt.

“The Lord God is merciful and good. This is our garden and we are free to do whatever we wish.” With one hand possessively grabbing at her hip and the other teasingly skating up the inside of her thigh, at this point Faustus might be the only thing actually holding her up. He’s so blatantly toying with her and she’s too wound up to even slightly mind.

“Then tell me, are you free to eat the fruit of the trees in your garden?” She barely even registers what he says over the overwhelming sensation of desire buzzing through her body but the muscle memory of her next line carries her through as she throws her head back with a moan.

“We may- oh!- we may eat the fruit.” Faustus makes a pleased little noise of appreciation and she can’t tell whether it’s because she got her words right or because he can feel that she’s dripping down her thighs for him. He bends to press his mouth to her neck and she can’t stop herself from rubbing her cheek against his head, desperate for more, for anything.

“And the tree in the middle of the garden? Are you permitted to eat the fruit there?” And then his fingers are sliding through her obscenely wet folds and there's no way in heaven or hell that she can keep talking. Zelda claws so hard at his shoulder that she must be leaving marks even through the stiff fabric of his shirt, her own version of a despairing plea and she can feel his lips curl up against her throat. “No? Such delicious, exquisite, dripping fruit,” he purrs, fucking two fingers into her roughly, thrusting twice, three times, before pulling them out and bringing them to trace over her lips. Hungrily, Zelda sucks them in, eager to taste herself on his fingers. She can't respond but that hardly seems to matter anymore, not with his cock hard against her leg and his fingers practically fucking her mouth. He'd veered off-script anyhow.

Her tongue curls over his fingertips and Faustus groans, pulling the digits away and shoving them between her thighs again. She rocks against him greedily and whines when he pulls away after another too brief, blissful interlude, a plea on the tip of her tongue until she realises what he's doing. Hands grabbing the backs of her legs, Faustus lowers himself to his knees and it’s a miracle from Satan that she doesn’t come right there and then.

“You deserve untold pleasure,” he rumbles, apparently back on script, his mouth barely two inches from the apex of her thighs. “And you can have it. All you have to do...” Faustus pauses, his gaze flickering up to her face for barely an instant, “All you have to do is eat the fruit.”

And then his mouth is on her and Zelda thinks she's going to scream. The sting of his nails piercing the soft flesh of her thigh is a dizzying counterpoint to the soft pressure of his tongue on her clit, her head swimming as she commands him to give it to her harder. The vibration of his chuckle against her cunt provokes a needy little whine that Zelda hates herself for but it’s completely worth it when he starts moving over her in earnest.

It’s almost surprising that he’s good at this; for all that she admires about him, Zelda has never been under the illusion that the man is anything other than a selfish bastard at his core. But for the love of Satan, he is good at this.

The way her hands are grabbing at his hair must be painful but he's showing no sign of it, certainly isn't letting up. As Zelda's legs begin to buckle and her thighs begin to shake, the pressure of his tongue on her clit only intensifies and she really, really shouldn't be making this much noise and fuck, she’s going to come and if she had any space for logic left in her body she’d be almost embarrassed at how little time it’s taken for him to get her here and she absolutely doesn’t because her entire mind has turned to an electric ocean of pure, unbridled need. Three of his fingers plunge into her, hard, and it hurts and she's coming, gasping and shuddering like a woman possessed, clenching so intensely around his fingers that it's almost impossible to breathe.

“I knew you'd be delicious." Zelda wasn’t lucid enough to notice him rising to his feet but now he’s purring his words against her neck, nipping none too gently at the soft skin there as he grabs her hips and lifts her up onto the desk. He's so handsy; everything takes twice as long as he trails his hands over every curve of her body and Zelda can only mewl in desperation, grinding recklessly against his very prominent erection when she's managed to hook her wobbly legs around his waist.

The way he's looking at her is almost as intoxicating as the sensation of his hands sliding over her flesh, almost as delicious as the feeling of his hardness pressed against her aching centre. If it were any other lover staring at her like that, threatening to pull her under into this dangerous abyss of wanting, Zelda would make some sly, innuendo-laden remark to try and claw her way back into control but it's far too tempting to just give in to the white-hot lust that's making her thighs tremble.

“Exquisite,” He murmurs, eyes still firmly fixed on her face and Zelda has to swallow a whimper.

“I like to think so,” she purrs, her arm snaking up his chest and fiddling with the collar of his shirt. Faustus chuckles, and the dangerous silky softness of his laugh is such a sharp contrast with the harsh sting of his nails over her décolletage that once again, it's suddenly far too difficult to breathe.

“My lovely, vain girl.” He shifts a little so that there’s even more pressure against her clit but it isn't just that that has Zelda moaning. She's almost alert enough to loathe herself for it but the idea of being his has her wetter than she's ever been in her life. Although his lingering glances have always been covetous, her fantasies have been too focused on that first rough, raw consummation to really consider what their mutual, heated wanting might mean in the longer term. She doesn't want to dwell on it, doesn't want to break this heady enchantment he's cast on her but there's a little corner of her mind that won't stop ticking over what it might be like to really belong to Faustus Blackwood.

“Greedy thing, aren't you?” He comments as though he isn't the cause of it and laughs when she moans an affirmation. “Believe me, sweetheart, I know precisely how you feel. I could eat you alive, you exquisite little tart.”

Moments ago, the thought had vaguely flickered through Zelda's head that it didn't seem physically possible for her cunt to get any slicker. Apparently, she'd been wrong. She mewls with frustration when he pulls back to unfasten his trousers, needing him pressed against her, touching her.

“How long have you wanted this, precious?” He grasps her chin, pulling her face up to look him in the eye as he lets her grind against him. She doesn't respond, can't respond, can barely even breathe. The answer must be clear from the way she's wildly rubbing herself against him, her eyes so heavy with lust that they’re threatening to fall closed with every blink.

“I asked you a question, Miss Spellman, I expect an answer. I thought you were supposed to be a good student?” Oh, Satan. Zelda moans wordlessly, once, twice, before she can actually manage to tell him what he wants to hear.

“So long...” She pants, hips bucking uncontrollably into him. Why won’t he just fuck her? Surely she’s conceded the upper hand to him in every conceivable way, drawing it out further is nothing but sadistic. “You know, I looked for you in the woods after my Baptism. I thought that you might want...”

Zelda trails off as sharp teeth sink into her shoulder but Faustus’s answering groan would have drowned out the end of her sentence anyway. One of his hands grabs at her thigh hard enough to bruise, pushing at it forcefully as though she hasn’t been determined to spread her legs for him for half a decade. With one harsh movement, he’s sheathed inside of her and Zelda mewls, her own sharp nails digging into his shoulders to balance her as Faustus begins to pound into her at a pace that makes it impossible to catch her breath.

“Fuck, Zelda... What I wouldn't give to have popped that ripe little cherry. Do you know how often I’ve dreamt about fucking this tight wet cunt, sweetheart?” He rasps, his harsh and breathless voice counterpointed by her unrestrained moaning. Anyone roaming the halls will be able to hear as clear as day how utterly wrecked Faustus Blackwood sounds while he’s fucking her and the thought is nearly as pleasurable as the hot, hard press of his cock inside her.

“And how am I living up to your expectations?” She manages to purr, grabbing a rough fistful of his hair to keep herself anchored as his brutal thrusts threaten to overwhelm her completely. Faustus merely growls in response, capturing her mouth in a kiss that’s as rough as the rest of his movements. He doesn’t let her go until her lips are swollen and bruised, and her head is swimming. In her own lascivious fantasies, the two of them have always been perfectly matched sparring partners, their carnal back and forth as playful and titillating as the rest of their encounters. To a certain extent, she’d been right; by the grace of Lucifer, Faustus seems to know what she wants better than she does, pinching and stroking and moving so perfectly that Zelda is on the verge of screaming. But even though this had started as a game, their communing isn’t playful. The look in his eyes is fierce, almost impossibly hungry even while he’s consuming her so completely.

“You know,” Faustus snarls, one of his hands diving between her legs to rub hard, hard circles over her clit, hard enough to make her squeal like the schoolgirl she pretends not to be. “Don’t try and pretend you don’t know what you do to me, Zelda. Difficult for you to play the innocent virgin when I’m buried to the hilt in your soaking cunt, darling.”

With a truly undignified whimper, her nails scrabble at the back of his neck, slicing recklessly into sensitive skin. He shouldn’t have her right on the precipice and so bloody desperate to fall.

“Be a good girl, Zelda. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Do as you’re told and let me feel that pretty little pussy come for me.” Despite his breathlessness, Faustus’s voice is velvet soft in her ear and it’s that as much as the rough pressure between her thighs that has Zelda shaking all over, a visceral moan of his name ripped from her throat loud enough to shatter glass as ecstasy wracks through her body. This is it, this is it, this is what she’s been craving so with every fibre of her being and all Zelda can do is sink into it, let it utterly take her over. Drowning in sensation, she bites greedily at Faustus’s throat as his rough hands hold her in place while he chases his own pleasure. For all his posturing, it doesn’t take long before he’s harshly cursing against her jaw, letting his teeth scrape over her skin as he comes.

For a moment, Zelda just lets herself be, drinking in the feeling of him pressed against her, over her, inside her. The burning in her spread thighs is delicious, the ache of her cunt even more so. It could have easily been such a disappointment, finally fulfilling this forbidden little fantasy. The fact that it was better than anything even her lurid imagination had been able to conjure up is terrifyingly thrilling and all Zelda can do is hope that her new lover feels the same.

“Darling...” Faustus cups her jaw, bringing her gaze up so that she meets his still-hungry eyes. She arches into his touch, no longer so afraid to show that she's wanting. “You're so beautiful when you come, Zelda.”

The affirmation makes her sigh, rubbing her face against his surprisingly gentle hand. It's not that she needs his praise; Zelda knows that she's stunning. But hearing him so unguarded, a world away from his usual studied, arrogant composure, has a curious kind of warmth settling in her stomach that's she's never before felt in his presence. It's almost unsettling and instead of leaning into it, it seems much safer to close that metaphorical drawbridge. She fixes him with a wry half-smile and disentangles herself from his arms, more pulled-together than she's been in front of him in weeks.

“I'm sure you say that to all the girls who- what was it? Practically beg you to fuck them for better marks or a childish thrill?” With as much self-assurance as she can muster, Zelda dabs at the lipstick she's smeared over his mouth until Faustus grabs at her wrist and brings it to his lips.

“Neither of which you need, my darling.” Before she can move out of reach, Faustus wraps his arms around her waist, bringing her flush against him again. Smirking, he presses a short, hard kiss to her mouth, completely undoing her attempt to clean him up. “Not that I'm not thoroughly enjoying your costume choice, Zelda but I hope you brought some slightly more appropriate clothing for your journey home.” As if to crudely emphasise his point, Faustus squeezes her bare arse and Zelda can only roll her eyes.

“And what makes you think I won't walk through the Academy like this?” She lowers her voice suggestively, running a hand over the shirt he hadn't bothered to remove. “I don't think I'd be hearing many complaints.” Zelda moves as though to make for the door but Faustus just laughs, holding her even tighter against him.

“Who do you think you're fooling, sweetheart? We both know you're all mouth.” He grins, swooping down to kiss the aforementioned mouth again, but Zelda is only half-focused on his embrace. That sounded rather like a challenge, and if today has proved anything, it's that Zelda Spellman will never back down from a challenge.


End file.
